The 'HOUR' Series
by KidsNurse
Summary: Hour 20 BITTERSWEET HOUR: Wilson reflects on what he and House have been through together.  All previous HOUR vignettes can be found in my profile. Beginning with Hour 4, all future vignettes are here, as chapters. COMPLETE 07.20.07.
1. HOUR 4a: FiftyMinute Hour HOUSE

**FIFTY**-**MINUTE HOUR: House**

This is a crappy idea. Of course it is; it isn't _his_ idea, it's Cuddy's. Which automatically makes it suspect, of course, but this time there's more. She's told House--in no uncertain terms--that if he doesn't keep this appointment she's set up for him, she'll suspend him. Indefinitely. An _indefinite _amount of time to mull over what _his_ decisions have done to the only person in his life who's ever cared about him just because he's House.

Not because he's a phenomenal diagnostician, not because his presence at Princeton-Plainsboro brings in the big donations. Not even because they're somehow related and, well, you _have_ to care about family. No; Wilson cares about House because he _wants_ to. And House would never admit it, not even to himself, but that makes his friendship with Wilson worth more than all his other relationships put together. So House shows up at the stupid appointment.

The psychiatrist is young, and self-important--two strikes against him. The third strike comes when he asks the first question. "Dr. Cuddy tells me that you've been sleeping excessively, even at work; shall we talk about the issue you're trying to avoid?

_Strike three_, House thinks. _You're out! _He smiles at Dr. Arbeson, and it's a deceptively kind smile. "Sure," he says pleasantly. "What are the magic words that'll fix killing your best friend?"

House notes, with satisfaction, that the young man's eyes have just doubled in size. "You're... admitting to... committing a murder?" the psychiatrist asks hesitantly.

House leans back in the chair, closes his eyes. "Yup. Worst kind of crime, too. Kind I can't be punished for. Wilson's lost his medical license; he's in jail for two years, and he's lost me. I might not look like much of a prize to _you, _but _that_ idiot's actually _told_ me that the only two good things in his life are his job, and me--go figure, huh? So... I make sure he'll never work as a doctor again, and _then_ I get him locked up for a couple of years. Not like I can stop by once in a while with a six-pack and a movie, is it? He's still breathing, but he's dead. Do you get that?"

"And you're... feeling a lot of guilt about this."

House lifts his head and regards the doctor with wry irony. "They _pay_ you to figure that out? I'm in the wrong specialty!"

Dr. Arbeson has recovered his professional mask. "You need to come up with healthier coping mechanisms than avoidance; perhaps I can help you do that. Start by acknowledging your depression."

"I'm not depressed, you moron," House almost shouts. "I'm angry!"

Arbeson looks smug. "Depression," he says sagely, "is simply anger without enthusiasm."

House looks hard at Arbeson. "Here's something they didn't teach you at Harvard. Sometimes _guilt_ is a valid feeling. Sometimes our choices have consequences. And sometimes people we care about have to live with those consequences, while we get off scot-free. Got a pill, or a bandage, or a nifty slogan for that?"

Arbeson simply stares back, and House sees, with cold amusement, that the psychiatrist is at a loss for words. House checks his watch.

"Seems I've used up nineteen minutes; gives you thirty-one minutes to dig out your DSM-IV. Maybe you can find the diagnostic criteria for _'crappy friend.'_ If I were you, I'd start under _H_. Then," he says as he stands and grabs the doorknob, "at least the insurance company'll know how to reimburse for this illuminating—" he checks his watch again, "—nineteen minutes and thirty-two seconds. And make sure you tell Cuddy I was here."

House is halfway out the door. He turns around and says one more thing. "Sometimes, guilt is just… guilt. No fancy names, no simple cures. And we live with it." And then he's gone.


	2. HOUR 4b: FiftyMinute Hour WILSON

**FIFTY-MINUTE HOUR: Wilson**

Wilson enters Dr. Ambegley's office and smiles shyly. It's evident that he's uncomfortable, ill at ease, and the psychiatrist makes an effort to greet him warmly.

"So nice to meet you, Dr. Wilson," he says, extending his hand.

Sadness radiates from Wilson's eyes. "It's just _Mister_ now," he says. "Or... James."

They seat themselves, and the psychiatrist says, "That's as good a place to start as any. Would you like to discuss how you feel about the loss of your medical license?"

Wilson rubs his hand across his face; it's difficult to tell if his unutterable fatigue is physical or emotional. "I'm sorry," he begins, "that it hurts House so much. He'd never admit that he feels guilty about my license. But I know him, and he does. I'm afraid it's gonna affect him. When he can't avoid dealing with emotional issues, his physical pain increases. I'm worried about that."

"But there's nothing you can do, so that concern isn't productive for you."

"But you don't understand House. He's... different. And now that I'm not around, he'll shut down. _Every_ aspect of his life will suffer. His diagnostic skills, his interactions with others. And his health. That's my primary concern right now, his health--mental _and_ physical."

"I have to point out, again, that you're powerless to intervene there." Dr. Ambegley watches as his statement causes real pain to settle across Wilson's features.

"If I could just... talk to him. Let him _know_ that nothing's changed, that I still worry, I still _care_..."

The psychiatrist feels uncomfortable now--but he has to ask. "I'm inferring from the... degree of your concern... that you and your friend House might, well, have a… relationship?"

Wilson smiles with open amusement. "If you consider that someone you met, decades into your life, is your brother, _always was_ your brother--even before you knew of each other's existence--then yeah; we have a relationship."

Now it's Ambegley's turn to smile. "And I take it you're the big brother?"

Wilson actually laughs. "Well... not chronologically. But in every other way, yeah." Wilson continues to talk animatedly about House, shares his concerns with Ambegley, and a few times, loses himself in the recollection of happy memories.

Dr. Ambegley watches the expressions, the memories, playing across Wilson's face. Finally, he interrupts gently. "James, our time is almost up. Do you realize you've spent over forty minutes telling me about your friend, and your friend's problems? We haven't talked about _you_ at all."

Wilson looks steadily at the doctor and says simply, quietly, "You don't understand; we've talked about _everything_ I needed to talk about. House isn't... doing well. His problems _are_ my problems. Fix things with House. Can you do that? Then _I_ won't need help either."

"I'd like to see you again, next Thursday," Ambegley says. "Are you willing?"

Wilson smiles gently, almost condescendingly, at the kind doctor who wishes he could help. "I feel guilty, taking up your time when there are so many others who _could_ benefit. But… sure."

The psychiatrist shakes his head and sighs as he scribbles out Wilson's scrips for anti-depressants and sleeping pills. Ambegley's an intelligent man; he knows he's just come up against a rare situation. No sage words, no amount of medication, will benefit this man in front of him. Even if Ambegley could wave a magic wand, produce the lost license, he knows that its value to Wilson would be negligible compared with his other loss. Only one thing will help him—and it's the one thing Ambegley cannot do for this intriguing prisoner. He needs what _no one_ can supply; James Wilson needs to be reunited with his brother.


	3. HOUR 5:  Random Hour

**RANDOM HOUR**

**THURSDAY 2:00pm**

Wilson walks into the exam room and smiles when he sees that the patient is Hank, the prisoner with the deformed foot and the bad attitude. It doesn't faze him when Hank regards him with a scowl.

"Just gonna get your vital signs, Hank. Then the nurse'll be in. How you doing today?" he asks as he wraps Hank's arm with the blood pressure cuff.

"How ya think? Hurtin'. Like usual."

Wilson frowns; Hank's blood pressure is high, and his heart is racing. He's clearly in severe pain. Wilson opens the medical record and is appalled at what he sees.

"We need to talk about increasing your—" Wilson stops himself as he remembers where he is—_who_ he is—now. He shakes his head sadly. "Sorry, Hank. Nurse'll be right in."

While they wait for the nurse, Wilson studies Hank—the hunched shoulders, the angry look in his eyes, the way his body's drawn in on itself, protectively. He's intimately familiar with the picture in front of him—hell, every _single_ time he'd observed House from a distance, unnoticed, he'd witnessed this same picture. But _that_, that was just _House_; it wasn't someone in unremitting pain! Was it? _Was it?_ This is the first time Wilson's stopped to consider what all of it _means_, the first time it's ever boiled down to truly _seeing_ what quiet suffering looks like. When the nurse enters, Wilson can't leave the room fast enough.

Wilson stands in the corridor, head down, eyes closed. _Should've listened. Should've believed you. Should've __been__ a doctor when I __was__ a doctor. I'm sorry, House._

The situation in the Diagnostics department is unusual—they've got _two_ patients. House has the team running every test in the book on the first one while he studies the medical records of the second. He's deep into the mystery when Cameron bursts into his office.

"We think we've got it figured out, House! We think it's paraneoplastic syndrome."

House looks up distractedly. "Boring. Also, not my gig. Go find Wil—go… track down an oncologist. Building's crawling with 'em."

Cameron shoots him a pitying look, but leaves without another word. House looks back down at the folder in front of him and tries to immerse himself again in the clues that will eventually offer up the diagnosis.

House sighs in frustration when he realizes he's read over the same test results three times, and he doesn't remember a thing. This is the first time in his career that that's happened—the first time _ever_ that the puzzle isn't enough for him.

_You never should've lied for me. Everything that happened to you is your own damned fault; I hope you know that. You put __yourself__ in prison. Didn't need you protecting me. Go back to your cell—get outta my brain, Wilson! It's all I've got left…._

House closes the folder, and closes his eyes.

Wilson should still be working; his shift doesn't end till 3:00. But when the guard saw him leaning against the wall in the clinic, pale and shaking, he'd escorted him back to his cell, told him to lie down a while. They're kind to him here. He's well-liked by everyone, staff and inmates alike—but none of them _know_ him.

Wilson wishes that he'd finished out his shift. All there is to do now is think. Wilson doesn't like to think anymore.

House rouses himself with a start—must've drifted off again. Good thing Cuddy hadn't caught him; she'd have sent him back to that quack shrink, the idiot who thinks House is avoiding some issue.

House tries again to concentrate on the patient history; no luck. He wishes now that he'd stayed asleep. Looking at the folder is just a reminder of something he's lost—the great Dr. House can't _think_ anymore.

Three o'clock arrives and the work day ends. Wilson makes himself close his eyes, and tries to nap. House forces his eyes open, and tries not to.


	4. HOUR 6:  Painful Hour

**PAINFUL HOUR**

House rushes into the prison infirmary, a guard hot on his heels. The phone call from the prison administrator had contained just enough information to justify the land-speed records House had broken getting here, and he's not about to be stopped now by some underpaid guard who doesn't even carry a gun. "Where is he?" House shouts.

The guard looks apologetically at the nurse. "Sorry; couldn't stop him. Pretty fast for a guy on a cane. Says he's here for Wilson; is it okay?"

The nurse looks at the man with the blazing eyes and the frantically tapping cane, and she smiles at him sympathetically. "I take it you're Dr. House?"

"I am. Now that we've gotten the introductions out of the way, _where is Wilson_?"

"First exam room on the left; I'll take you there."

"No; I can find my way." And he's gone.

Wilson's sitting uncomfortably on the exam table. His shirt is off, and he's shivering. A detached part of his brain wonders if it's from the temperature of the room, or if he's in shock. When House bursts in, Wilson sits up a little straighter, and tries to smile. "Hey, House. Finally found a way to get you into a clinic voluntarily, huh? Oughtta tell Cuddy."

Wilson's brave attempt at a joke falls flat; House's expression doesn't change, and he doesn't speak. His eyes zero in on the large gauze pad covering Wilson's left shoulder. House locates a pair of gloves and snaps them on quickly. Then he removes the bandage the prison doctor had applied just minutes ago, and begins to probe the freshly-sutured wound.

House stills his hands only once, when Wilson winces. He allows his warm hand to rest on undamaged skin; it looks almost like an attempt at comfort. When he feels Wilson's shoulder relax again, he resumes his thorough examination of the traumatized area.

Wilson sits quietly; he doesn't dare speak. But he's surprised; House's hands are uncharacteristically gentle as he inspects the injury. House might be angry with Wilson, but he's certainly not communicating any fury with this oddly soothing touch.

Finally, House is satisfied. He rebandages the wound carefully, then finds a sheet which he tosses to Wilson—he's seen the trembling.

Wilson covers himself gratefully, then meets House's eyes—House still hasn't uttered a word. "I guess you want to hear what happened," Wilson says.

"I _know_ what happened," House growls. "You almost got yourself murdered in a country-club prison—only _you_ could manage that." House is glaring at him now.

"It wasn't exactly… like that," Wilson says. "It was a freak thing. There was some overcrowding at another facility, and they brought a few of them here. Supposed to be only nonviolent inmates, but…. Anyway, I was helping with their entrance physicals, and there was… a small altercation. One of 'em apparently snapped off a piece of metal on the bus—a… uh… sharp piece of metal. Another inmate threatened to rat him out, and… I was just… trying to keep anyone from being hurt, that's all."

House's eyes widen. "You did this _on purpose_? You got between two goons with shanks _intentionally_?"

Wilson looks down, doesn't answer. But House's silence stretches out so long that finally Wilson looks at him. He notices, for the first time, that House's face is unnaturally pale, and he realizes that House has been clutching at his leg, at intervals, since he'd arrived. "I scared you," Wilson says quietly. "I'm sorry."

House's eyes are cold, and they're boring into his. When he speaks, his voice is terse, clipped. "You _knowingly_ put yourself in danger. On purpose. Fine. _Still_ haven't learned that risky choices can have nasty consequences, I see. Hope when that lesson finally sinks in, you're alive long enough to benefit from it."

As Wilson stares at him, hurt building in his eyes, House looks away and takes a deep breath. Then he calmly reaches for his cane and heads through the door, slamming it hard behind him.

Wilson wraps the sheet a little tighter around himself, and tries to remember how to breathe.


	5. HOUR 7:  Dark Hour

**DARK HOUR**

Wilson twists uncomfortably in his bed in the prison infirmary. As usual, he's thinking too much. As a matter of fact, an insane thought has just drifted through his head—_Almost worth it, getting stabbed, just to see House, know he's all right._ But the smile the thought brings fades quickly; House _hadn't_ really been all right, had he?

Wilson forces himself to _stop_ thinking, and tries again to find a more restful position in the hospital bed. It's not that his injured shoulder hurts—although it does. It's not that he'd prefer to be on the far less comfortable cot in his cell—although he would. And it isn't that they aren't being kind to him here, even solicitous. The orderly who'd just been by to check on him had even called him a hero. A hero.

_Wait'll House hears that! In his book, I'm a moron for what I did. _Wilson stares at the ceiling in the dark and thinks. _He's probably right. And if I were at his place right now, he'd be reminding me just how right he is. He'd tell me I deserve the pain._

Wilson smiles to himself. If he _were_ recovering from this injury on House's couch, he'd have to take a _lot_ of crap from the owner of said couch. House would call him a baby. He'd toss the ibuprofen bottle at Wilson, and expect him to catch it. Then he'd stand there, watching, until Wilson had swallowed the tablets.

House doesn't own anything as traditional as an ice pack; he'd probably offer a package of frozen carrots for the stinging in the shoulder. Or an icy beer, referring to it as 'dual purpose first aid'. And he'd perch uncomfortably on the edge of the coffee table, watching Wilson with hooded eyes until _he'd_ decided that Wilson was okay; wouldn't matter what Wilson's own opinion was. Then he'd stand up and run a hand roughly over Wilson's forehead to check for fever, commenting that thermometers were for wimps. He wouldn't bother to mention that he didn't actually _own_ one.

Finally, he'd toss an extra pillow in Wilson's general direction, along with some smartass comment that Wilson didn't actually _deserve_ to be comfortable.

House would head off to bed then, yelling over his shoulder that if Wilson needed anything during the night—anything at all—the phone was on the table; call _911_.

And then House would get up a few times during the night, and if Wilson happened to rouse, and find House observing him from across the room, House would mumble something about the damned leg making him restless, and he'd disappear quickly.

Wilson grins in the dark. _Damn_, he wishes he were recovering on House's couch!

House stands in the darkened living room, gazing towards the vacant couch. _Good thing Wilson's not here, driving me crazy, expecting me to wait on him, see to his shoulder like I was a doctor or something. Nothing more diagnostically dull than some idiot with a shank wound._

House closes his eyes hard against the sudden image of the rusty, jagged metal piercing Wilson's flesh, tearing its way through muscle towards Wilson's heart.

But House discovers that his closed eyelids provide the perfect backdrop for rivers and sheets of flowing crimson, deathly white faces with impossibly large, impossibly frightened brown eyes. House decides he'd rather stare at the empty couch.

After a while, House sighs, and picks up the telephone. The switchboard operator connects him to the infirmary. The nurse who answers his call is patient with him. Yes, James is receiving antibiotics prophylactically for infection. Yes, he seems to be resting comfortably, and his vital signs are fine. Of _course_ they're treating him for the pain. She'll let him know, in the morning, that Dr. House called, and was concerned. No? All right then, she won't mention the phone call.

As the nurse hangs up the phone, she makes a mental note to tell Wilson about House's call anyway. The eccentric, crippled doctor seems to be very important to Wilson—knowing about House's call might cheer him up a bit. Poor James; always so sad, always so… far away. He doesn't belong here.

House slowly recradles the phone. He limps to the closet and rummages around. He tosses a comforter and a pillow impatiently onto the couch. It's a dumb, _human_ thing to do, pretending that Wilson is here; House curses his own irrationality. Then he stands looking at the shapeless mounds on his couch, in a room so dark that not even _he_ would be able to see the single tear, coursing slowly down his cheek.

In the morning, the couch isn't empty anymore—although, for the life of him, House can't remember how he wound up there.


	6. HOUR 8:  Desperate Hour

**DESPERATE HOUR**

_In a real dark night of the soul, it is always three o'clock in the morning. –F. Scott Fitzgerald_

**3:00am: Wilson**

Tonight's the night. Wilson's planned for this with his usual attention to detail. He's saved two weeks' worth of his sleeping pills—no one even questioned why he'd suddenly begun accepting them each evening—and, for good measure, he's also got six of his antidepressants.

He'll take all the pills shortly after 3:00am, when the guard makes rounds, because the guard won't come by again until 6:00am—and by then it'll be too late.

Wilson had _thought_ he'd be able to handle prison; after all, two years isn't forever. And maybe his career is gone, and that's a blow—but he'd still have the _other_ good thing in his life; he'd still have House. But House's last visit, when Wilson had been injured, had changed everything. He could see that the guilt was destroying House—and Wilson can't allow that to happen.

Sure, his suicide will upset his friend. But death is finite; it has a definite end, and the survivors move on, given time. Imprisonment, Wilson's decided, goes on forever. Even after he's served his sentence and been released, his continued presence on this Earth would be a daily reminder to House of the lost medical license, the lost two years. A reminder that, Wilson knows, would eventually kill House.

_I've screwed up enough. My marriages. My career. I've already lost House's trust; things might never be the same. And without House, there's nothing left for me. Nothing._ So Wilson will die instead.

**3:00am: House**

Tonight's the night. House has made no plans, said no goodbyes. But it's time. So he retrieves his secret stash of morphine tablets—he's not gonna die like a junkie, an empty syringe by his side—and the bottle of aged scotch he'd been saving for Wilson's release from prison; it'll wind up providing release for House instead.

It's almost 3:00am, the time he's picked, at random, to start the process. He wants to be dead by dawn, doesn't want to suffer through another cruel, cheerful sunrise.

House had _thought_ he'd be able to handle his guilt about Wilson's imprisonment. But his last visit to Wilson had changed everything. The look in Wilson's eyes… the hurt. He'd needed something House couldn't give; he'd needed a _real _friend, and House doesn't know how to _be_ that. House had realized then that Wilson wouldn't ever be able to move on with his life as long as House was a part of it. So House will remove himself from Wilson's life quickly, cleanly—no different than the surgical removal of a cancer, really.

Yeah, his suicide will upset Wilson. But Wilson's a pragmatic guy; he'll realize, eventually, that it's for the best. When Wilson gets out of prison, it'll be difficult enough establishing a new life—he doesn't need the added anchor of being House's friend to weigh him down further. That anchor would drown him, eventually. So House will drown himself first.

**3:12am**

Wilson feigns sleep as the guard passes. Once the man is gone, Wilson goes to the small stainless steel sink in his cell. He divides the pills into two handfuls and places the first group of ten in his mouth, swallowing it quickly with a handful of the rusty-tasting water. He takes the second bunch of pills the same way, then returns to his cot.

House lays out the pills on the coffee table. He figures twenty ought to do it. Any more than that might cause him to throw them all up; any less, and his stupid body would probably just think it was at some awesome party, and then he'd wind up living through another mocking dawn.

As Wilson waits for his final sleep to overtake him, vivid pictures start to play in his mind. Holding House's bruised, crushed hand between his own after Wilson's plan to detox him had gone terribly wrong. Watching House lie in a coma of his own choosing, chasing the dream of having a normal life again. Thinking House had terminal brain cancer, and not being able to eat or sleep or even breathe that week, because House was dying. House, needing Wilson. House _needs_ Wilson.

House picks up the first bunch of pills and stares at them. But instead of seeing the chalky white ovals, he sees Wilson. Standing forlornly with a suitcase at House's front door, his life falling apart and nowhere else to go. Yelling at House like a rebellious teenager over an affair with a patient that would've ruined Wilson's career. Telling House that their friendship was one of the two good things he had, and listening to his voice crack and break as he said it.

_Damn him—too stupid to know I'm no good for him. I pulled him down, and the fool let me do it. When I'm gone, the world'll eat him alive—no one left to watch out for him. He'll never make it; damn—Wilson needs me. _

Wilson can't do it; House needs him. He bolts from the cot to the toilet and forces his fingers down his throat. The pills and the bile burn as they come up, and Wilson gasps for air. When he can breathe again, he counts the pills, floating and dissolving in the water—they're all there. He sighs in satisfaction; he'll live.

House can't do it; Wilson needs him. Slowly, he collects all the pills and puts them back in the amber bottle. Then he limps to the kitchen and carefully replaces the bottle of scotch in the cabinet. He returns to the couch and allows himself a frustrated sigh; screw it—he'll live.

Hours later, the sun rises on another day, and they're both awake to see it.


	7. HOUR 9:  Witching Hour

**WITCHING HOUR**

House fumbles through the darkened living room, shouting, "I'm coming; I'm coming! Shut up already!" On his way through, he glances at the clock—midnight. Means it must be one of his team with an earth-shaking discovery, something that _better_ be worth waking him for.

Earlier in the evening, some sort of freak allergic reaction—House suspects maybe the cinnamon chicken in the hospital cafeteria—had prompted him to take 150 mg of diphenhydramine and head for bed. Who ruins perfectly good chicken with cinnamon anyway?

Finally he reaches the door and yanks it open impatiently. Wilson's standing there with a six-pack of beer and a rented movie, and he's smiling. "Did I wake you? You up for gratuitous violence, ear-splitting explosions, and half-dressed women? _And_ beer, of course."

House shakes his head to clear the fog. "What… are you doing here?" he asks slowly.

"Not gonna invite me in?" Wilson asks, brushing right past him and coming in anyway. He tosses a beer to House, then puts the movie in the player and grabs a beer for himself. He takes a seat on the couch and slings his feet up on the coffee table.

House thinks maybe _he'd_ better sit down, too. He joins Wilson on the couch and stares at him. "What are you doing here?" he repeats, a little more forcefully this time.

"Needed a break," Wilson says casually, eyes on the TV screen. "That whole prison thing gets old pretty fast. Figured an evening with you was just what the doctor ordered!" Wilson laughs. "'Course, _you'll_ have to be the doctor; that's a no-no for me now."

"Why did you… what were you… _how _did you…."

Wilson laughs again. "_This_ is a first—don't think I've actually heard you be incoherent before. Well, at least not _sober_ and incoherent."

House sighs. "Just answer the questions; I'm certain you can translate them."

"You worry too much, House. When someone's imprisoned for something they didn't do, they can come and go as they please. Even got my own key—see?" Wilson dangles a shiny silver key from his left index finger, then replaces it in his pocket.

House rubs hard at his right thigh; _damn,_ it's hurting bad. Wilson notices. He pulls a prescription pad and a pen out of his pocket and fills out the top slip, handing it to House when he's finished.

House studies the scrip for Vicodin that Wilson's just given him. It's signed _James Wilson, M.D._ "You… can't do this anymore," he says.

"Sure I can. Can't practice as a physician, but they can't really take the _title_ away, can they? Earned _that_ by going to med school. May be worthless now, but it's mine to keep. 'Course, the pharmacy'll probably notice the lack of a DEA registration number. Hmmm…." Wilson looks momentarily stumped, but then he grins. "Got faith in you, House. Anyone can figure a way around the legalities, it'll be you."

House nods slowly. Finally, he settles back on the couch to watch the movie, drink his beer, spend time with Wilson. House has decided not to look this particular gift horse in the mouth.

When House awakens in the morning, he smiles before he even opens his eyes. The hallucinations that 150 mg of diphenhydramine can cause are an undesirable side effect—that's what the pharmaceutical companies call it, anyway. Not House; House calls it an evening with his friend—and that's very desirable, indeed.

It's only later in the day, after he's snapped even more viciously than normal at anyone stupid enough to stumble into his sphere, that it hits him—last night's hallucination had been trying to tell him… _something_.

And—for the first time since Wilson's arrest—House may have finally found a puzzle that's _worthy_ of his attention.


	8. HOUR 10:  Lonely Hour

**LONELY HOUR**

Wilson sits at the small desk in his cell, composing a letter. If he'd actually intended to _send_ the letter, he could go to the prison library and use the computer.

But this letter, like all the others, isn't going anywhere. It's just a… coping mechanism, recommended by Dr. Ambegley. Wilson finds it helpful, finds that he even looks forward to this hour when he can get lost inside his own thoughts.

He hasn't seen House for several weeks—not since House had shown up the day Wilson had been stabbed. The nurse in the infirmary had told him the next day about House's call during the night, but since then, Wilson has heard nothing from House.

Wilson knows about that first call—and he _also_ knows that House phones the infirmary every day around 4:00pm, to check on the infection that Wilson's developed at the site of the shank wound.

Wilson had been putting in a couple of extra hours in the clinic one afternoon when House had called—and Wilson had answered. There'd been a long pause after Wilson had identified himself, and then a male voice, with a bad Indian accent, had asked to speak with Debbie, the nurse on duty.

Wilson had smiled; he recognized that accent. It's the same one House had used when he'd crashed 'Von Lieberman's' lecture. So he'd put Debbie on the phone, and left the room, still smiling.

Debbie had confessed, later, that House called daily for an update, but had asked them not to tell Wilson. He'd _said_ that he didn't want Wilson to think that House doubted the quality of the care he was receiving. And he could couch his questions about Wilson's mood, how he was eating, and sleeping, in all the medical terms he wanted—Debbie wasn't fooled. And neither was Wilson, who slept better _that_ night than he had in weeks.

Sometimes it bothers Wilson that House is trying so hard to hide his concern. Sometimes, he wishes that House would call _him_. Or visit. Sometimes… it hurts.

But it's okay, really, that House stays so distant. It means that House will never learn about Wilson's suicide attempt last week. Well… he _will_—but he won't.

_Dear House_

_Been a while since you've visited; you haven't missed a whole lot here. Except for Tuesday. I did something selfish, and I think it might surprise you._

_You're always accusing me of wanting to be a martyr, putting you and everyone else before myself. Tuesday night, though, I put myself first—in a big way. I decided I didn't want to deal with any of this anymore. So I tried to kill myself. Pretty dramatic, huh?_

_After I'd taken the pills, though, I remembered what I'd known all along. And—since you'll never see this letter—I'm going to be honest here. I couldn't go through with it, because I couldn't leave you. You're a jerk, House—but you're my best friend. And I worry about you. So, I figured, if I weren't around to keep you in line, you'd do something __really__ stupid, and it would be my fault. I couldn't live with that, even if I were dead. Yeah—stupid joke; I know. So anyway, you saved my life last Tuesday._

_That's pretty much the only thing that's happened since I saw you last. I'm not going to tell you that I miss you—not even in a letter you'll never see—because I really __don't__ miss you. Don't get annoyed by that; I don't ever miss you because you're always here, that's all. Any time I need to, I just close my eyes. Then, I can hear you insulting me, see you stealing my food, interrupting a patient's appointment. Guess that last thing won't ever happen again, but I do look forward to the day when you again call me a moron as you steal the last french fry off my plate._

_Wilson_

Wilson puts down the pen and sighs as his faint smile fades away. This is always the bad part about ending these letters; he has to remember all over again that House is out there, alone, without him. And he has to acknowledge that—as different as he and House are, have always been—House is the only one who's ever understood him. And what he _didn't_ understand, he just accepted.

As Wilson crumples up yet another letter to House, he wonders if House has _any_ idea what a good friend he's been to Wilson. And he wishes House didn't feel so guilty about this whole situation. Maybe, if the guilt weren't so strong, House would visit more often. And then Wilson wouldn't worry about him so much.

Wilson lowers his head into his hands and tries to forget, just like _last_ Tuesday, that the _reason_ he's been given this quiet time to himself is because the other inmates are with the people who care about them. Wilson hates visiting hour.

But he understands why House isn't here. That day another prisoner had injured Wilson, House had come quickly. He'd seen for himself that Wilson was okay. And then he'd left, just as quickly.

_He wasn't angry; he was scared. For me. Figured if the thing with Tritter hadn't happened, I wouldn't have been here to be hurt. In House's mind, his weird logic—makes all of it his fault._

_And if he doesn't visit, he isn't reminded of what he thinks he's done to me, to my life. If he acknowledged it, he'd break. Wouldn't do a bit of good to tell him he didn't do anything wrong—it'd just make him angry._

"Damn it, House," Wilson whispers into the quiet cell. "I'm only here because _someone_ had to pay. And what I said to Tritter was true; better me than you."

Wilson has an idea, and he picks up his pen. _This_ letter, he'll send. Maybe it'll help.


	9. HOUR 11:  Dinner Hour

**DINNER HOUR**

Cuddy's already seated at a secluded table in the restaurant when House arrives. For once, she's very happy to see him leaning more heavily than usual on his cane, moving slowly through the room. Once he's seated across from her, she casually reaches over and grabs the cane, which he's hung on the back of his chair. Then she smiles mischievously at him.

"Niiice," House says as he regards her appraisingly. "Any reason my mobility's posing a particular threat to you tonight?"

Cuddy's still smiling. "Nope. Having a captive audience is a secret fantasy of mine; that's all."

Now House leers at her. "Care to share any more… _fantasies_?"

The smile disappears rapidly from Cuddy's face. "Yes, actually, I do. I've got this crazy dream that you'll go visit Wilson next Tuesday. And the Tuesday after that. And so on."

House no longer looks amused, either. "Sorry. Not happening. And—since it seems you got me here under false pretenses—I'd appreciate the return of my cane. Need to be going now."

"The pretense wasn't false. I told you I needed to go over some paperwork with you. In private. And I do." Cuddy reaches into her purse and hands House two folded sheets of paper.

House begins to read the first page, then tosses the papers to the tabletop. "Also not happening. This letter is addressed to you. It's a violation of federal law for me to stick my nose into _your_ mail. Don't wanna break any laws."

Cuddy smiles. "Fine. Then let me summarize for you. Wilson knew you wouldn't read anything he sent you. So he wrote to _me_, because there are some things he wants you to know. Says he figures that for all the times I've used him as a go-between, when I was trying to get you to listen, I owe him this one. And he's right."

House reaches for his cane; Cuddy pulls it further away. House sighs in resignation. "Gimme the condensed version. And then give me my cane."

They're interrupted briefly by the waiter. Cuddy orders a meal; House says he won't be staying and asks for a glass of water.

Once the waiter leaves, Cuddy picks up Wilson's letter. "The first thing he says is that you've done nothing wrong."

House makes a scoffing, disbelieving noise, and Cuddy laughs. "The _second_ thing he says is you don't believe that. And that I'm going to have to explain it to you." She sets the letter down on the table and meets House's eyes.

"Wilson says that throughout the entire investigation, you were the _only_ one of us who stuck by your principles, never wavered. He's right, you know. Says what you did was admirable, and that you were his role model for the choices he eventually made—and that he doesn't regret one single thing he did. He says you taught him about _real_ honesty, and it's a lesson that'll always be with him. And that a couple of years in prison is a cheap price for such a valuable lesson."

The waiter reappears with Cuddy's food, and sets a glass of water in front of House. The interruption annoys Cuddy, but House seems relieved by the enforced break in the conversation. So Cuddy fidgets until the waiter departs, and forces herself to sit quietly until House drains the glass of water, then returns his attention to her.

House has been listening intently to everything Cuddy's telling him, and she knows that the time will never be better to impart to him the most important point Wilson wants him to know. So she locks her eyes with his, and grabs both his hands across the table; he _has_ to know that Wilson _means_ this.

"Wilson wants you to know that he's proud to be your friend. He says that you need to remember just one thing, and you'll be okay. He wants you to remember that… he's proud of you He says to tell you that… you were right. You did the right thing." Cuddy releases House's hands and watches his face.

House's eyes are unreadable as he nods slowly at her. He holds his hand out for the cane; she returns it to him, and he stands.

"I need some time off," he says. "Not sure how long—need to take care of something."

Cuddy isn't certain what's going on, but her instincts tell her that it's good. "Take all the time you need, House." She watches him as he takes Wilson's letter from the table, then folds it carefully and puts it in his pocket.

Then House reaches across the table and grabs a handful of fries from Cuddy's plate.

"_That's_ for Wilson," he tells her as he stalks off. Cuddy sees the small smile on his face, just before he turns to leave, and—for the first time—she's beginning to believe that House and Wilson _might_ just be all right.


	10. HOUR 12:  Legal Hour

**LEGAL HOUR**

House is twitching. He doesn't like to be kept waiting, and he's been waiting for twenty one minutes. His cane is threatening to wear a hole in the plush carpet beneath its tip; he estimates that it's hit the same spot at least three hundred and four times now. Three hundred and five.

"Ms. Doyle will see you now, Dr. House," the receptionist says irritably--the man is driving her to distraction.

House smiles pleasantly at the grumpy woman, and sweeps past her into the inner sanctum of the one person who might really be able to help him--help Wilson. In the last three days, he's spoken with a private detective, a criminal lawyer, and a retired cop--and apparently, all roads lead here, to the office of the state's attorney, the woman who'd originally set up the deal for Wilson.

"I need to talk to you," he announces. "There's a flaw in your conviction of Dr. James Wilson. And--since you're all about justice--I'm presuming that you'll want to take care of it yesterday."

The woman frowns at him, then presses a button House can't see. "Lydia, look up James Wilson's file. I don't have the case number in front--"

House shoves a piece of paper at her. She looks at it, then at him. "Never mind, Lydia. Found it."

Doyle presses the numbers into her keyboard, and begins to study the file.

For a minute, House is able to distract himself by studying Ms. Doyle, as she examines the file. He likes what he sees; intelligent brown eyes, short auburn hair swept back from her face, confident posture. A no-nonsense woman who'll take him seriously. But House is tired of waiting. "I'm here because Wilson said... he said I..." House clears his throat and swallows. "Did the right thing. But I didn't. I'm the one you want, the one who belongs in prison. You need to release him, remove the sanctions from his license."

When Doyle doesn't appear to hear him, House continues, ignoring the note of desperation in his own voice. "I've done the research; if you need a loophole I found it. Vicodin's schedule III; this is a federal sentence. Wilson wrote me six legit prescriptions in five and a half months. You subtract the ones I wrote—which I'm confessing to—he comes in just under the DEA guidelines."

Doyle is studying her computer screen, and frowning; she doesn't respond.

"Didn't you hear what I just told you?" House asks impatiently. "You don't even _need_ to go over his file. "I'm confessing. Put me in prison, let him out. Seems pretty simple to me!" House's agitation has gotten the best of him; now he's up and pacing.

Doyle looks up slowly from the computer. "You're... wrong, Dr. House," she says seriously.

"I _know_ I'm wrong--that's why I'm here! I'm trying to fix it, to... do the right thing."

"No. You don't understand. Let me remind you that _your_ case was dismissed. You could confess to all the charges now, and I couldn't do a thing; double jeopardy attaches. It's irrelevant now. But there's something else. Under federal law, you aren't the one who committed a crime; Detective Michael Tritter is."

House, speechless, stops pacing and stares at the woman.

"From what I can see here, Detective Tritter's raid on your home was... not legal. He obtained the warrant on false grounds."

Never removing his eyes from Ms. Doyle's face, House sinks slowly into a chair.

"You should know," she continues, "that we've been investigating Tritter for some months now. It came to our attention that his... methods... were a bit overzealous. After a preliminary investigation, we've also discovered that many of his methods were also illegal. And--the way the law works--when evidence and information are obtained illegally, and convictions are handed out on the basis of that initial evidence, those convictions are automatically nullified. Further, any investigations which are begun based on the initial faulty presumption are also negated."

House continues to stare at Doyle; he's trying hard to hear everything she's saying, but it's difficult to comprehend _anything_ past _Wilson's getting out; he'll get his license back._ The thought shouts and echoes in his brain, refusing to leave room for anything else. It isn't until much later that it even occurs to him that _he's_ not going to prison either.

Doyle can tell that he's not quite processing what she's telling him. "Let me put this more simply. If I do _B_ and _C_ based solely on _A_, and it turns out, later, that _A_ should never have happened, then the law considers that no matter how valid _B_ and _C_ are, they shouldn't exist. Therefore Dr. Wilson should never have been imprisoned, never have had his license sanctioned. We'd have caught this... grievous error... eventually, in the course of our investigation into Detective Tritter. But it's fortunate for Dr. Wilson, in terms of expediency, that you've brought this to my attention now. We've… quite a backlog of cases to examine. Dr. Wilson might've had to serve out his entire term. I'm grateful to you for bringing this to my attention; I'm certain your friend will be grateful to you as well." She smiles, but House doesn't smile back.

"How long before Wilson's released? Before he gets his license back?"

"Normally, that process can take many weeks. But I'm going to expedite Dr. Wilson's case personally. I'll be in touch with you, and with his lawyer, very soon. And I must echo Dr. Wilson; you did the right thing." Doyle smiles again, encouragingly, but she notes that the man in front of her is still distressed.

"So you're gonna give 'em another shot at killing him?" House glowers at her.

"What are you talking about?"

"He was shanked. A few weeks ago. He's _still _being treated for the infection it caused."

"I'm so sorry, Dr. House. I wasn't notified. And I know it's no comfort to you, but a situation like that is almost unheard of at that prison."

"Damned right it's no comfort! I'm on a first-name basis now with the staff at the infirmary; have to call 'em every day. And believe me, Ms. Doyle, I'm not normally a first-name kinda guy!"

"I'll have the judge take that incident into consideration; you have my word. Dr. Wilson will be released as soon as humanly possible."

House takes a deep breath. "And Tritter?"

"He's currently in jail for evidence tampering. I can't go into the details with you, as that case itself is still pending."

House stands to leave. "I need… I want to be the one to tell Wilson. Could you…."

Doyle looks sympathetically at House; it's clear that this is a man not used to asking for favors. "Of course," she responds warmly. "I'll put in a call right away, arrange for you to meet with him privately. I assume you're going there now?"

House nods. "Thank you. And… I'd suggest," he says to Doyle, "that—what with his… _pleasant_ personality, and his former career—you might want to put ex-Detective Tritter into protective custody." He moves towards the door, but with his hand on the knob, he turns around. "Or… not," he says—and _now_ he's smiling.


	11. HOUR 13:  Honorable Hour

**HONORABLE HOUR**

Wilson waits for House in an exam room in the infirmary. This time, it's different; he knows House is on his way here, and that House _wants_ to see him. Wilson doesn't know why, and he doesn't really care—House is coming.

House enters the room, tosses his bike helmet on a counter, nods at Wilson, and says without preamble, "We need to talk."

Wilson smiles. "Hello to you, too, House! Just fine, and you?"

House ignores the greeting. "I've just come from the state attorney's office. Your being here, it was all a mistake. Tritter overstepped his bounds, fudged some numbers. Broke some laws." House lowers himself into a chair; Wilson sees that he looks exhausted, drained—and triumphant.

"We already knew all that, House. But if I hadn't taken this deal, he would've gone after you, and we might have _both_ wound up in prison."

House looks intently at Wilson. "Listen to me. Tritter's in jail. We aren't the only one's he's screwed with. I went to see Doyle because I finally figured something out; they're holding you based on a faulty assumption."

Wilson sits patiently on the edge of the exam table. He knows there's no sense in trying to rush House to the _point _of this discussion. House has solved a puzzle, and—whether or not its solution is relevant—he's always compelled to share the process with anyone who'll listen. And Wilson _always_ listens.

"Tritter made certain that they counted the scrips _I_ forged into the total of what you'd written for me. Put you in clear violation of the Controlled Substances Act. He knew that if anyone caught it, said anything, you'd _have_ to admit, in court, that you knew about the forgeries. Otherwise, he'd call in his handwriting experts, his DEA contacts. Subpoena a few pharmacists, run a few security tapes for the jury. He'd have us both." House stops talking and peers at Wilson to make sure he's following. When Wilson nods thoughtfully at him, House continues.

"But it was in _Tritter's_ best interest that you take this deal. Because it turns out that he was wrong from the start. The search on my apartment never should have happened. Doyle says that nothing that followed should've happened either."

Wilson says slowly, "That means that both of us are in the clear. _Both_ of us." He looks at House with just the smallest bit of hope in his eyes.

"Yeah—but the important thing is, you really _didn't_ violate any DEA regulations, didn't break any federal laws." House pauses and gazes seriously at Wilson. House's eyes are warm; the faint smile playing across his face is sincere—he looks like someone who _cares_. "That means they're removing the sanctions from your license. You'll practice medicine again." House allows the smile to widen, the eyes to grow warmer, as he regards Wilson. His kind, empathetic expression never changes as he allows the implications of what he's said to sink in.

He continues to explain the details slowly, and as simply as he can. His tone isn't patronizing, though—it's… considerate.

Finally, Wilson's able to speak. He meets House's eyes. "Thank you," he says simply.

House frowns; the smile and the warmth disappear. "For what? Letting you go to prison? Putting you in a situation where you might've been killed? Almost destroying your career? Or just for being a lousy friend?"

Wilson shakes his head. "No, House," he says gently. "For doing the honorable thing. For… for following the moral imperative to protect your friend. For coming here today and… treating me like a human being."

House looks away and says gruffly, "Yeah, well—don't get used to it." Then he stands and begins gathering supplies. "Now let's have a look at that shoulder; wanna see if the infection's resolving."

Of course Wilson knows that _House_ knows that the shank wound had become infected—but House thinks Wilson's unaware of the daily phone calls. So Wilson decides to bust him on it—this could be fun.

"How'd you know it was infected?" Wilson asks casually as he removes his shirt.

House looks trapped, but only for a second. "Easy," he asserts confidently. "You're flushed—indicative of a low-grade fever." House snakes his fingers around Wilson's wrist. "Pulse is rapid—backs up the fever. And the padding on the bandage is triple what it should be at this point in the healing process," he finishes triumphantly.

Wilson thinks, briefly, of pointing out that both the flush and the rapid pulse could easily be explained by the news House has just given him, and that even clean, uninfected wounds can drain for a very long time. But he decides to let this one slide. House has demonstrated his _human_ side for the better part of an hour. He's made it clear that he cares, very much. And he's allowed Wilson to see his guilt, his vulnerability. Let's not push it.

Wilson watches as House searches in the unfamiliar cabinets for something. He _could_ tell House exactly where to find whatever he's looking for—but he knows that House needs this respite from all the emotion that's recently filled this room. So he doesn't speak, just continues to observe quietly.

House's gait is slower than usual, the limp more pronounced. Wilson realizes that—between the ride to and from the state attorney's office, and the drive to the prison—House has been on the bike for over three hours. House's own rule, in deference to the leg, is two hours, max. And he still has the drive back to Princeton.

Wilson would normally chide House, tell him he should've taken the car. But he knows, intuitively, that the torturous ride, and the pain it's causing him, were somehow _necessary_ for House—that House _needs_ to punish himself for his perceived wrongs.

_He went to bat for me. Went in there thinking he was turning himself in. Came all the way out here to deliver the news in person. And now, the renowned Dr. House is cleaning and bandaging a simple stab wound, with all the concentration I'd give a biopsy. Least I can do is let him think his secret's safe. _

Wilson watches in wonder as House gently peels away the tape on the dressing and glances at Wilson's face to make certain he isn't hurting him._ Phone calls? __What__ phone calls?_

"Impressive differential, House," Wilson concedes with a smile. "Accurate as always." Then he leans back comfortably against the pillow, and allows his friend to care for him.


	12. HOUR 14:  House's Hour

**HOUSE'S HOUR**

Despite the increased pain in his right thigh, House has to admit that he's enjoying the ride back to Princeton. The weather is good, the traffic is light, the bike is running well.

_And none of those things even remotely explain the smile on your face, you moron_House says to himself. _Can't even be honest enough to tell __yourself__ the truth; that's just... pathetic. Admit it; you're happy. You're actually... happy. May not last long, but it's here now. Enjoy it._

House thinks about the long week he's just been through, and about everything that's still coming up, some of which will be difficult, even painful. But for right now, what matters—_all_ that matters to House—is that there's an end in sight, a conclusion to Wilson's nightmare.

_Gotta tell Cuddy, give her time to find somewhere else to put the guy who's in Wilson's office. What's his name? Oh well, doesn't matter now. Only been there four months anyway; that's not long enough to learn his name._

House wonders what Wilson's thinking about right now, wonders how long it'll be before he's ready to come back to work. _Me, I'd wanna come back right away. But Wilson… he might want to take some time, ease into it. Cuddy'll just have to understand; Wilson's always been the cautious type. Shouldn't be a problem, though; Cuddy's told me often enough that I could learn a thing or two from 'the careful approach'._

House laughs aloud; Cuddy can think what she wants, but it sure isn't the careful approach that's getting Wilson out of jail. Sometimes, doing the right thing means taking risks—no one knows that better than House. And when it pays off, it pays off _big_.

As House pulls up to his building and gets off the bike, he can't deny the physical pain any longer. The few steps to his door are agony, and by the time he collapses on the couch, each breath is a labored gasp. But he's still smiling. He allows two bitter Vicodin tablets to melt on his tongue; relief will come faster that way.

He leans his head against the back of the couch, rubs at his leg, and he remembers.

House had been eleven years old that summer, a skinny misfit, a loner. His dad had been determined that they'd run together in the annual Father-Son Marathon. To that end, his father had shouted him awake each morning at 5:30, and they'd run. When House would be ready to collapse with pain and fatigue, when each breath was fire in his throat, his dad would laugh at him, egg him on, shouting, "No pain, no gain, you _wimp_!" And House would force himself to go on, tears making hot, steady tracks down his thin face.

Until one day he'd collapsed. He'd spent the next three weeks in bed, muscles bunched in a hard, tight knot in his thigh. In all that time, his dad had entered his bedroom only three times. The first time, he'd told him to "suck it up and get back out there."

The second time, the young House, hope in his eyes, had said to the man looking disdainfully down on him, "Hurts so bad I must've made a _lotta_ gains, huh, dad?"

"Baby!" his father had growled, and had slammed the door on his way out. The last time, the day of the race, he'd looked at the boy writhing in pain—no doctor was ever called—and whispered, "I raised a sissy." During these bedside visits, there was no mistaking the look of disgust on his father's face. And all three times, on his way out, he'd turn in the doorway and hiss, "No pain, no gain."

All these years, House has felt the expression was macho garbage. He didn't know what lesson his dad had _intended_ to impart, but what he'd taught his son was that pain was to be hated, because it diminished him, made him less of a man. And—over three decades later—House was still living his life with that belief. After all, the only gifts pain's ever given _him_ are a dark way to view the world, and a dependence on narcotics—not exactly advantages.

But _this_ pain—this is different. This pain is his friend; it's tangible proof that he did something good today, something _right_. Wilson's gonna get his life back. And House? A couple days of hurting like hell is a negligible price to pay for regaining his friend. "You were right, dad," he whispers aloud into the dark room as he massages the thigh.

"Whaddaya know, you old bastard; you finally called one. But this time, I had a different teacher. Didn't force the words down my throat. Didn't call me names even though he had every right to. What he did was _showed_ me how to handle it. Never said a word; just gave a damned good demonstration."

House thinks of Wilson's quiet grace, his acceptance, all these months, in the face of a pain House's father couldn't _begin_ to imagine. He'd shown House that pain didn't have to diminish him. In fact, House thinks, it's the opposite. Embrace the growth that pain can bring, accept it for what it can accomplish, and the _man_ doesn't diminish—but the pain does.


	13. HOUR 15:  Wilson's Hour

**WILSON'S HOUR**

Once House leaves, Wilson heads outside. As he walks across the well-tended grounds to a bench beneath a tree, he nods to several inmates returning from the tennis courts.

_House isn't too far wrong about the whole country-club aspect_, Wilson thinks with wry humor. _Although we __are__ lacking a golf course._

Wilson seats himself on the bench, and allows his mind to wander. In the months that he's been here, this has become a favorite spot for him. Usually, it allows him to forget, for a while, where he is and why he's here. But today, that's _exactly_ what he wants to think about.

He's still in awe of the side of House he'd seen today. The man who'd come to see him had been thoughtful and compassionate. He'd _willingly_ put Wilson's needs ahead of his own. That means a lot to Wilson; he knows House, so he knows that House analyzed this, debated it, tore it apart from every angle. And—believing it would cost him his own life—House did it anyway.

_He was ready to exchange his career, his freedom for mine_, Wilson thinks wonderingly. _When he thinks something's right, nothing stands in his way. He wanted to protect me, and he was ready to make the sacrifice. _

Wilson remembers the first time he'd seen such strict adherence to a personal code, and had learned about that moral imperative that compels us to protect those we care about. He'd just turned five years old.

His parents had gone to a barbeque with friends, leaving him in the care of his twelve year old brother. They'd left strict instructions that Jimmy wasn't to ride his bicycle in their absence; his father had removed the training wheels just days before, and the little boy was still trying to get the hang of riding without them. Wilson remembers, with a grin, that David had told him he looked as if he were pedaling down the street in the middle of an earthquake.

Almost as soon as their parents were out the door, Wilson had started in on David. He wanted, badly, to learn to ride that bike before Mom and Dad got home. He wanted to surprise them. And finally, his brother had given in.

They'd practiced about twenty minutes; young Jimmy was feeling pretty confident, and he'd yelled to David to let go of the seat. The next thing he knew, he was in his brother's arms, being carried into the house.

His brother told him he must have ridden over a rock, and turned the handlebars the wrong way; he'd fallen from the bike, hitting his head on the pavement. Fortunately, there was no obvious damage to either him or the bicycle, and he and David made a pact that the accident would forever be their secret. Half an hour later, without warning, Jimmy threw up.

David ran straight for the _Home Medical Encyclopedia_, and learned about concussions. When he told Jimmy that he'd have to call their parents and tell them what had happened, Jimmy'd cried, and sworn he was okay. And he might've had David convinced, too—if he hadn't vomited again while his last, emphatic "_fine_" still hung in the air between them.

When his brother picked up the phone, Jimmy had begged him to say that it was the 'flu; a friend of his had just gotten over it, and Jimmy knew it involved an awful lot of throwing up. His brother ignored him and made the call.

When their parents got home, Jimmy watched, wide-eyed, as his brother stood there, tall and straight as a man, and took all the blame. Wilson remembers that he'd tried to argue, to tell his parents that _he'd_ been the one who'd insisted on taking the bike out.

"Don't listen to him; he has a head injury. It's making him talk nonsense," David had said seriously, sounding like a grown-up.

Wilson's parents had grounded David for two weeks—the same amount of time the doctor had forbidden outdoor play for Jimmy. And each day, when David would get home from school, he would gather up all the blankets he could find. He'd build a cave, or a castle, or even a pirate ship with gigantic sails. Then David and Jimmy would go, together, on the most exciting adventures. And David never once got mad at Jimmy for the unfair punishment he was suffering.

Wilson smiles now, thinking back on that childhood demonstration of protection and self-sacrifice. More than that, though, David had also given him his first lesson in doing what's right. And today, he'd seen the _adult_ version demonstrated, from the unlikeliest of sources.

Oh, he's always known that House has a strong sense of personal responsibility, to do right by the people and things he cares about; what he'd _forgotten_ is that his unique friend tends to cloak it well. House has never felt the need to announce his gestures of love.

_I told Ambegley that I'm the big brother in my relationship with House, but that's only because House never had a chance—or maybe I never gave him one. He's always been the one who needed me, and we both just accepted that._

Wilson thinks back on all the times he's been there for House, and admits to himself that perhaps, once in a while, he's felt a little resentment that his concern hasn't been reciprocated. And then he realizes that maybe he's been wrong to feel that way; maybe Wilson simply didn't _recognize_ the concern. Nothing from House ever comes wrapped in the traditional package.

_House reminded me of something today, something David taught me thirty years ago. I should've known that with House, caring isn't about remembering to make a phone call, or showing up on visiting day. For him, it goes a lot deeper than that; it's knowing when to do the right thing. It's __doing__ the right thing, and consequences be damned._

House calls it an evolutionary incentive. Wilson calls it a moral imperative. But, Wilson realizes, it all comes down to his own words— the words House had echoed back to him when he'd visited House in rehab: _That's what friends __do_.


	14. HOUR 16:  Uncomfortable Hour

**UNCOMFORTABLE HOUR**

They've been in the car for ten full minutes before either of them speaks. "Thanks for picking me up," Wilson says.

House still doesn't speak—just nods his head.

"And… thanks for everything you did, to get me out of there so fast, and clearing my name, getting my license back, and—"

"You don't have it back yet," House points out, abruptly. He sounds almost angry.

"No, but I _will_."

"And all of it would've happened eventually if I'd done nothing at all," House says, in a monotone. "All these touching expressions of gratitude are, therefore, unnecessary."

Wilson stares at House, whose eyes are glued to the road in front of him. Yeah, there's no question—House is angry.

"House," Wilson begins tentatively. "What you did, it was—" Wilson stops speaking and looks around in confusion as House suddenly swerves the car to the right, and pulls it off the road.

House slams the gearshift into _Park_ and turns to face Wilson. "Shut up. Just shut up, okay? I didn't do anything great. I didn't do anything I shouldn't have done _months_ ago. You don't owe me anything. I don't _want_ your gratitude. You think maybe we could just get past this thing _without _the touching scenes?"

House is glaring at Wilson now—but Wilson sees, hidden behind the supposed annoyance, the plea in House's eyes.

_So that's it. House is still hurting; he still feels guilty. And I'm adding to it by making him think about everything that's happened. _Wilson looks away, stares out the passenger window.

_Too bad. Too damned bad. Time for both of us to own up to everything that went wrong—and everything that went right. _He turns back towards House.

"No. No, I _don't_ think we can get past this—not without talking about it."

House shakes his head, takes a deep breath, and carefully maneuvers the car back onto the road. Wilson fears they're going to spend the rest of the drive in silence; he jumps when House suddenly begins shouting.

"Okay, fine! You wanna talk? Let's talk. I blew it! I blew it with Tritter. I blew it with Cuddy. I blew it with rehab. Okay? And I blew it with you. Then—just in case you missed it the first time—you went to prison, and I messed up again. I'm a screw-up, okay? Happy now?"

House is breathing rapidly. He has the steering wheel in a death grip; his knuckles are white. Wilson waits a minute, and when he speaks, he keeps his voice deliberately low and calm; his tone is gentle.

"I blew it too, House. Long before Tritter was even in the picture. My best friend came to me for help. He was honest with me, and he was scared. And I laughed at him. Someday, I might be able to forgive myself for that. But I'll never forgive myself for allowing things to get so out of hand for him that he was willing to risk everything."

House shoots Wilson a quick glance, and sees the sincerity on his face, the regret in his eyes. House takes a deep breath, and allows himself to relax, just a little.

Wilson continues even more quietly, "I meant everything I wrote to Cuddy. Everything."

House nods slowly, and they continue on, in silence again. But now the silence is comfortable, and comforting, for both men.

When they arrive in Princeton, Wilson is baffled. "You turned the wrong way, House. The hotel is north of here."

"No, I didn't. My sense of direction is flawless."

Wilson frowns. "North is left; you turned _right_."

"Yeah, because that's the way _south_ is," House says. He looks pleased with himself.

"And… you're going south, because?"

"Because I'm pretty sure that's where my apartment is. _Could_ be wrong, though. Only lived there fifteen years, after all."

"House! If I don't get to the hotel by three, I'll forfeit my reservation."

"You don't _have_ a reservation," House says smugly. "Cancelled it."

Wilson stares at him. "And you did _that_, because?"

"Because _any_ idiot knows that hotels are hotbeds of infection. You see that study that shows _two-thirds_ of the remote controls in hotel rooms had fecal bacteria on 'em? And the bedspreads?" House gives a comically exaggerated shudder. "You've got an infection; suppose you spike a fever. You're not thinking straight, and you actually _use_ the remote to change a channel. Then," House continues, deepening his voice dramatically, "weak with fever, you collapse onto the bedspread, and all those nasty, hungry little bacteria _crawl_ into that draining wound. Death! You really want to risk it? You're a _doctor_; surprised you didn't think of that!"

_I'm a doctor. And I've got my best friend back. _Wilson shakes his head thoughtfully. "Don't know what I was thinking. Going to a hotel would just be… stupid."

As House pulls up to his apartment, they're both smiling. They're _home._


	15. HOUR 17:  Lunch Hour

**LUNCH HOUR**

After Wilson's had a chance to settle in, House makes a suggestion. "How 'bout we head over to the hospital. Bug Cuddy, grab a late lunch."

Earlier, House had called Cuddy to let her know he'd be bringing Wilson in; could she make sure House's team left them alone? He wasn't coming in to _work_, just wanted Wilson to get back on the horse, so to speak. House figured a quick lunch and a short visit with a friendly face ought to do it. Cuddy'd thought the idea was a bad one, but House had overridden her objections. So she'd reluctantly agreed to notify his team to keep their distance. _And_ she'd promised to make herself available after lunch. _Perfect_.

Wilson hadn't _fallen_ off this particular horse—he'd been pushed. And House considers that since he's the one who started the pushing, it's his responsibility to see that Wilson climbs back on soon, and safely.

Wilson is hesitant. "I don't know. I'm not… it's been a long day. Can't we just hang out here?"

"No food here; gotta eat. Cuddy's not here either. It's a lot easier to make her miserable when we're in the same room. Or at least the same building." House resolutely ignores Wilson's unhappy expression, and grabs the car keys. "C'mon, let's go. I'm hungry."

Wilson reluctantly follows House out the door.

At the hospital, House heads straight for the cafeteria. It's late for lunch; Wilson's relieved to see that the place is almost deserted. But as they set their trays on a table, there's a doctor headed straight for them. Wilson doesn't recognize him.

"Dr. House!" the man says, with an insincere smile. "Care to introduce me to your friend?"

House matches the fake smile with one of his own. "Doctor… uh… Hemlock…."

"Henley," the man corrects smoothly, as he turns to Wilson. "And you are?"

"James Wilson." Wilson forces himself to meet Henley's eyes, and to offer his hand.

"James Wilson, _MD_," House says jovially. "Boy Wonder—once and future head of Oncology, at this _very_ establishment! Slays dragons, eradicates big, bad cancers—and still manages to file his taxes on time! Wilson, meet the man who's been keeping your chair warm during your temporary absence."

"House," Wilson warns.

"Ah, so _you're_ the legendary Dr. Wilson," Henley says. "I've heard… many _interesting_ things about you."

"_Sure_ you have," House says quickly. "Unfortunately, Wilson can't say the same about you. Seems you just aren't all that… interesting."

"Yes. Well. Be that as it may, here's one _fascinating_ fact for you to chew on, Dr. House. I've been Acting Head of Oncology for over four months now. Rumor has it that the Board will be voting to make my position permanent next week." Henley turns to Wilson. "Don't worry. I'm sure that with your… mmm… current credentials… you'll quickly be able to find a position… uh… _somewhere._" Henley smiles coldly, nods, and leaves.

"Wouldn't have 'em engrave that plate for the door just yet, Hemlock!" House calls after him loudly.

There's an uncomfortable silence at the table. House is beginning to think he shouldn't have forced this today.

"He seems… pleasant enough," Wilson finally offers.

"He's an arrogant jerk," House says shortly.

Wilson smiles at that. "Yeah, actually, he is. As a matter of fact, under… different circumstances… I might even count him among my closest friends." Wilson laughs at the honestly confused look on House's face, and he's just starting to relax when he spots Chase approaching their table, with Cameron not far behind.

"Dr. Wilson! It's good to see you," Chase says with a wide smile.

Wilson smiles back. "Good to see you, too, Chase."

But Chase has already turned to House. "Glad you're here," he tells him. "Seems our patient has cholangiocarcinoma, a Klatskin tumor, and we're going to—"

"If you've already diagnosed her, _my_ job is done," House interrupts, scowling. Hadn't he _told_ Cuddy to confine the puppies to their pen? "Go find what's-his-name and—why have you suddenly developed a head twitch? You might wanna see Foreman about that."

Chase twitches his eyes this time—and now House catches on. All this seizure-like activity is aimed in Wilson's direction, although Wilson is unaware of it; Cameron has him wrapped in a hug.

House's eyes widen. "Ah!" he says loudly, "A Klatskin, one of the _rarest_ of the liver cancers. Hemlock won't be able to handle it; maybe we'd better keep _this_ patient for ourselves."

Wilson disentangles himself from Cameron. "House, you can't do that. Your patient needs an oncologist!"

"Actually, Dr. Wilson, I think we _can_ handle it, if we could just get a few questions answered. Could you do that, do you think?" Chase asks, holding out the file to Wilson.

"I can't, Chase." Wilson shakes his head, but his eyes are on the file. "Don't have my license back yet."

"Just a formality!" House booms. "Besides, the children aren't asking you to _practice_; they're merely asking for the knowledge of an older, _wiser_ physician, such as yourself! Right, kids?"

Cameron and Chase are both quick to assure Wilson that all they want is his guidance. This time, when Chase offers the file, Wilson takes it eagerly. Within seconds, he and Cameron are deep in discussion. Wilson's eyes are bright, his demeanor serious and purposeful.

House leans over and whispers to Chase, "Remind me to pad your paycheck this week."

"You're welcome," Chase whispers back, and then joins the discussion.


	16. HOUR 18:  Administrative Hour

**ADMINISTRATIVE HOUR**

Once Cameron and Chase have left, Wilson returns to his untouched lunch; House has already finished eating.

"You're getting right back into the swing of things," House observes cheerfully as he swipes a pickle from Wilson's plate.

"I just answered a few questions; that's hardly—hey, wait a minute! You don't even _like_ pickles!"

"Well, yeah, but you forgot to order fries, and I need to polish my food-borrowing skills. Hate to admit it, but they've gotten a little rusty lately."

Wilson shakes his head. "How could I have been so _thoughtless_? I'll go get you an order of fries right now, how's that?"

"Nah; no fun unless they belong to you. Anyway, we need to see Cuddy before she leaves for the day."

Wilson looks like a kid unexpectedly summoned to the principal's office, just when he'd thought the school day was ending. "Why?"

House determinedly ignores the way Wilson's suddenly gone pale and uncertain. "Because it's _rude_ to leave a party without at least thanking the hostess," he says airily.

Wilson's still shaking his head, and House sees the beginnings of real panic in his eyes. House remembers a trick his mother used to pull on him when he was small, and being stubborn about going somewhere; Wilson's insecure enough right now that it might just work.

"That's fine; you can stay here, then. Finish your lunch. _Start _your lunch!" House has noticed that all Wilson's done is push the food around on the plate. "Or get a cup of coffee or something. I'll be back." He stands and begins to walk quickly away from the table.

"No, wait!" Wilson calls. "I'm coming."

House bites back a smile and waits for Wilson to catch up.

When they arrive at Cuddy's office, House doesn't knock—he bangs open the doors and shouts, "Hi honey, we're home!"

Cuddy forces herself not to jump, and aims a manufactured smile in House's direction. The smile she turns on Wilson, however, is warm and welcoming. She moves from behind her desk with her arms open, and envelops him in a hug. After only a second, he hugs her back.

House waits impatiently; touching scenes aren't his thing, and there's work to be done. As the two old friends finally break apart, he raps his cane against the desk to get their attention. "You," he announces to Cuddy, "have a problem. A _big _problem."

Cuddy shakes her head regretfully. "I'm well aware of that, House, but once I realized that you have tenure, I figured there are simply some things I've gotta learn to live with."

House makes a face. "Cute. Now listen. I've decided how we're gonna get Wilson back where he belongs."

Cuddy starts to say something; House silences her with a look. He imperiously points to the couch with his cane, and waits until his audience has seated themselves. Then, he begins to pace.

"Here's the way I see it. The three of us have already brought down _one_ Evil Empire, with nothing but our light sabers and our wicked tongues, and—"

Cuddy leans over and whispers loudly to Wilson, "What the hell is he talking about?"

Wilson smiles and whispers back, "Vogler, et. al. It's his favorite war story when we've been drinking. You're always Princess Leia."

"He's been _drinking_?"

"'_He'_ has _not," _House intones dramatically. "_He_ has figured out a way to get you out of this mess!" House stops speaking and glares at Cuddy when she groans. "What!" he demands.

Cuddy smiles sweetly at him. "It may have… escaped your attention, but most of your attempts to bravely right the wrongs of the world wind up costing me money. _Lots_ of money. And anyway—"

"Silence!" House roars. He sneaks a look at Wilson, who no longer looks pale and uncertain—he's snickering indulgently behind his hand.

House continues. "So _here's_ the cunning plan. _I_ will sneak into the Throne Room, and lay waste to the gilt-edged Secret Documents, thus rendering them unusable. Boy Wonder and Super Girl—"

"I thought I was Princess Leia!" Cuddy objects to Wilson.

"Different empire," he informs her matter-of-factly, while House glowers at both of them.

"_If_ I may continue." House waits until they both nod obediently. "Boy Wonder and Super Girl are charged with invading the Kingdom of Neoplasia. You must steal the Secret Life-Giving Formulas and replace them all with useless water. _Then_ you must _warn_ the denizens of Neoplasia that the Horrible Hemlock is endangering their lives. They will rise up as one, and ride him out of town on a rail. Problem solved!"

"Isn't he mixing his metaphors? Now we've somehow got trains in this scenario." Cuddy's shaking her head in confusion.

"Mixed metaphors appear to be the _least_ of his problems. Any beds available in Psych?" Wilson replies.

"Yeah," Cuddy says, "but none in the lockdown unit. I'm afraid we're stuck with him."

"You two have no imagination," House grumbles.

"No, but I _do_ have a plan based in… uh… _reality_," Cuddy smiles.

"How prosaic," House sulks, collapsing into a chair.

"As you know," Cuddy begins, "Dr. Henley's position hasn't been made permanent. And… it's not going to be. I've already spoken with all the board members. Seems he's rubbed most of them the wrong way. Imagine that!" Cuddy smiles dryly. "He has a six month contract, which gives us about seven weeks to come up with a replacement. I've been informed that Dr. Wilson should have his license back, officially, in about six weeks. Funny how these things work out."

House is still sulking. "You let me go through all that, and you knew all along…."

Cuddy doesn't bother to point out that House wouldn't _let_ her speak. "It's okay, House," she soothes. "That was perhaps the most _entertaining_ psychotic break I've _ever_ been privileged to witness."

Wilson nods his assent, and House grins in satisfaction.

"One more thing," Cuddy says to Wilson. "The board called an emergency meeting today and voted to restore your salary, retroactive to when you were wrongfully imprisoned."

"That's very kind of them, Cuddy," Wilson says. "But I won't be able to do anything to earn it anytime soon."

"Oh yeah, you will," Cuddy says. "When you're ready to come back, you can do some consulting for your department, fill in as guest lecturer—we'll keep you busy," she assures him.

"Did you hear that, House?" Wilson asks. But apparently, House is engrossed in methodically taking apart an intricate molecular representation he's found on a side table.

Cuddy and Wilson both stare at House while Cuddy continues, "And of course… you… _do_ realize… that you, uh… get _House_ back."

Wilson and Cuddy continue to watch House, in silence, for a moment more. As the expensive little model explodes to the floor in pieces, Wilson takes a deep breath and turns to his boss.

"I'm gonna need a raise," he sighs.


	17. HOUR 19:  Evening Hour

**EVENING HOUR**

As House and Wilson enter the apartment, Wilson sighs shakily, and collapses on the couch. House is immediately on alert.

"How's the shoulder?"

"It's fine, House. Relax. Just been a… full day, that's all. A _good_ day. I'm a little tired; nothing to worry about."

"I'm _not_ worried; just don't want you getting sick. You might expect me to act like a _doctor_, or something."

"Heaven forbid! Like I said, relax. I've only got two more days of antibiotics. Then the whole thing just becomes some story to tell my grandchildren. Or not." Wilson smiles ruefully.

"You take 'em yet? The antibiotics?"

Wilson's got his head leaned against the back of the couch; his eyes are closed, and he's comfortable. "Not yet; I will. Just give me a few minutes." He hears House's uneven footsteps leaving the room, and he sighs with relief; concerned House is turning out to be more work than selfish House.

Too soon, he hears the footsteps headed his way again; they stop right next to him. Without opening his eyes, he says, "Yeah, House. What is it?" There's no response, so Wilson reluctantly opens his eyes.

House is standing in front of him, cane in one hand, a plate in the other. He's somehow managed to balance a glass of water, the prescription bottle, and some unrecognizable food item on the plate.

Wilson frowns. "What's that?"

House sighs. "What's it look like? It's your meds and something to wash 'em down with. And a sandwich; you take antibiotics on an empty stomach, you might barf on my couch."

Wilson gives up and raises his head. "That is not a sandwich. That is… _that_ is—what _is_ that?"

"It's bologna and cheese, between a couple of Pop Tarts. We're out of bread; I improvised!" House says proudly.

"House," Wilson says patiently. "Meat and cheese, between two toaster pastries filled with… filled with…."

"Chocolate," House supplies.

Wilson's eyebrows climb. "Chocolate? _Seriously_?" When House nods, Wilson shakes his head and continues. "That does _not_ constitute a sandwich."

House makes a show of looking hurt. "I'll have you know that in Sweden, this is considered a _delicacy_."

_That'd be the same country where 'limping twerp' translates to 'friend_,' Wilson reflects fondly.

"Gimme," Wilson says, holding out his hand for the plate. "Never let it be said I turned down a sure-fire ticket to heartburn—or worse."

House hands the plate over, but continues to stand just in front of Wilson.

"What? I said I'd eat." Then he sees that what House is looking at is the pill bottle. Wilson picks it up and pops two of the capsules into his mouth. "Happy?" he asks after he swallows them.

House nods his head, but Wilson notes that his expression, on anyone else's face, would qualify as worried.

"House, what's up with you? You're acting… strange. I mean, you're acting… _concerned_, but for you, that's synonymous with strange."

House wrinkles his brow. "Just trying to be a good host, is all. Sorry if it's annoying you." He sits next to Wilson on the couch, and reaches for the TV remote. Wilson's busy trying to separate 'dinner' from 'dessert', but he's uncomfortably aware that House is still watching him.

The next few minutes pass in silence as Wilson chokes down some of the more edible parts of the "sandwich," and House flicks through the television channels. He settles on an old black-and-white movie, and turns to Wilson. "This okay?" he asks deferentially. When Wilson nods, he says, "You sure? If you wanna watch something else—"

Wilson flings the plate onto the coffee table and stands up. "All right; that's it! News bulletin: I'm _fine_. I just got out of a prison that wasn't _too_ much worse than the hotel I was staying in. I got my license back, and my job, and my title. I got my _friend_ back! Everything's great!" He's pacing now, and he's agitated, and House is simply watching him, expressionless, and he's not saying anything, and Wilson doesn't understand _why_. The silence is weird, and empty, and it needs to be filled, and if House won't speak, well then, Wilson _will_.

"Yeah, I'm tired, and I'm at the tail end of an uncomplicated infection, and it's my first day out, and maybe some of it was a little overwhelming. And I need to get some rest, and things feel a little strange right now, and yeah—it's hard to really relax. I can't quite believe it's over, and I can't quite believe it even happened in the first place. It's a little tough, okay? _But I'm not going to break!_" Now he's gesturing frantically, and yelling—and still, House is just sitting there, looking at him like he's some sort of intriguing zoo exhibit.

Wilson throws his arms wildly into the air. "What the _hell_ do you _want_ from me?" he shouts, and as he brings his arms down, he feels something pull in his left shoulder, and he glances towards it, and there's fresh blood, and he can't look away from it even though he's feeling dizzy, and then House is there, right there, guiding him over to the couch, and making him sit, and mumbling something that sounds like, '_good, it's about time; that was good_,' and the mumble is oddly soothing, and finally Wilson's able to pull in a deep breath, and then another, and he can't remember the last time it was so _easy_ to fill his lungs with air, and then he has a question, and he's able to ask it in a quiet, calm voice. "You want to tell me what all that was about?"

House shrugs. "You needed to get angry," he says simply, as he presses a dish towel to Wilson's shoulder. "Hold that there a minute; I'll be right back. Tearing that wound open wasn't part of the plan."

House returns before Wilson even notices that he's gone. "Lie back," he orders. "It'll give me a better angle on that thing."

So Wilson does as he's told, and he closes his eyes, and when House does something to his shoulder that stings it doesn't bother him, because he's still marveling at how suddenly _easy_ it is to breathe, how effortless, and why hadn't he noticed before how much _work_ breathing had become? And when House does something that takes away the stinging and replaces it with wonderful coolness, Wilson takes another miraculously deep breath, and he falls effortlessly into a soft, safe place, a place where the only sound is a quiet, comforting, familiar voice telling him it's okay, everything's all right now. And then he sleeps.


	18. HOUR 20:  Bittersweet Hour

**A/N:** This is it, kids; end of the road on _**The Hour Series**_. My appreciation for sticking with me on this journey. And I'm at a loss as to the proper words to thank **blackmare** and **misanthropicobs** for their apparently limitless patience, their brilliant suggestions, their perceptive analysis of the House-Wilson dynamic. They're awesome, and I'm incredibly lucky. _mjf 07.17.07_

**BITTERSWEET HOUR**

After four days of pretending not to watch over Wilson, House is finally back at work today. Wilson's relieved; he suspects House is too. Yesterday, Wilson had finally figured out what the problem is; they're off-balance.

Of course, Wilson appreciates House's concern. He's even thankful for the awkward attempts House has made to take care of him, though most of those attempts have resulted in more work for Wilson. He smiles, remembering his second night home.

For the first time ever, House had offered to make the popcorn for their movie. He hadn't just offered—he'd insisted. Wilson had sat miserably on the couch, trying to enjoy the feeling of being useless.

Then House had yelled from the kitchen, telling Wilson to "get in here _now_!" Wilson had run in to find a virtual blizzard of popped kernels everywhere, with House demanding, at the top of his lungs, to know _why_ Wilson had chosen not to tell him about using a lid on the pot. The conversation had then proceeded downhill rapidly.

"Uh… House. Surely even genius diagnosticians have enough common sense to know that popcorn… umm… _pops_."

"Of course I know that, you moron! I figured that if the stuff had enough _common sense_ to stay in a one quart _bag_, it could handle staying inside a two gallon _pot_!"

Wilson had stolen a glance at House's face to make sure he was serious; oh, yeah. So Wilson had swallowed his laughter, taken a deep breath, and tried again.

"House, the bag is enclosed; the stuff is trapped." Wilson had patiently drawn a box in the air with his hands to demonstrate. "In an open pot, the stuff pops, and _pow_!" Wilson again gestured, this time illustrating something along the lines of a nuclear explosion.

At which time House,glowering angrily, had made a gesture with _his_ hand, and Wilson had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing, but the laughter had snuck up to his eyes, and he was really sorry, but c'mon, House, it's _funny_! And after just a few seconds they'd both cracked up. Both the memory and the later blackmail potential had made it worth having to clean up the mess.

So Wilson had made another batch and put the kitchen back in order. And House had sat on a stool grumbling, and pointing out that at least he'd _tried_. Of course, it was all Wilson's fault for insisting that stove-popped corn was so much better than the microwaved variety; House _knew_ how to handle those non-aggressive sealed bags!

And later, at bedtime, House had actually asked Wilson if he was all right, if he needed anything. Okay, so he'd phrased it, "You don't need anything, do you?" But at least he'd asked.

Wilson doesn't want to discourage this apparent emotional growth. But it's _so_ different from the way things used to be that it's… unsettling.

Wilson's used to being the caretaker, the giver, the protector. And House is used to being, well, _House_. So the role-reversal of the last few days is taking its toll on both of them. Wilson realizes that things can't go back to the way they were before he went to prison—and they _shouldn't_. But until he and House find their footing, allow this new balance to seek its own, natural level, it's going to be just a little… weird.

Yesterday, when Wilson had pinpointed the problem, he'd casually suggested, over dinner, that maybe it was time for House to go back to work. House had jumped on the idea with alacrity; he's aware of the imbalance too. _And_ he's begun showing the first signs of boredom; Wilson knows that a bored House is something to be avoided at all costs.

Once the decision had been made, the situation had begun to improve immediately. Their evening had been relaxed and enjoyable; House had even been comfortable enough to throw a few insults at Wilson, make a few bad prison jokes. Wilson had forgotten that those jokes could be funny—and that laughter can help to heal.

Wilson's enjoying his freedom today. He chuckles at the irony of having felt more confined under House's watchful eye than he'd ever felt in prison. He has to laugh at himself, too. He finally has an entire day to do just as he likes, and he finds that the more routine, the more mundane an activity is, the more satisfaction it brings. So now, he's doing laundry.

Wilson picks up a pair of jeans, half-hiding under House's bed. He's done a few loads of wash for House in the past—and he's learned, the hard way, to check the pockets. He's previously found receipts, yo-yo strings, lab results, an expensive pen. Once, a wad of bubble gum. And House _still_ hasn't forgiven him for putting the GameBoy through the soak cycle.

So Wilson puts his hand into a back pocket with a bit of trepidation, and immediately feels paper, folded tightly into a neat square. The paper's been handled too often; it's soft now—soft as the many denim pockets it's obviously been pushed into and pulled out of over the last few weeks. Wilson recognizes it—his own handwriting, visible through the thin prison stationery; it's the letter he'd written to Cuddy.

Wilson opens it carefully, slowly—the paper's split at the creases— and reads his own words, remembering the loneliness, the desperation he'd felt as he'd tried to say _something_ that would somehow make a difference for House, lighten House's burden of guilt, anger… shame.

He'd known the letter had made a difference; Cuddy had visited one Tuesday, and told him so. She'd said that House had changed, after she told him what Wilson had written. That from the moment he'd scooped the letter from the table and left the restaurant that night, he'd been more confident, less cranky. But more than that, he'd seemed... at peace. Oh, he was still their miserable House, but underlying all his usual sound and fury, there was a serenity Cuddy'd never seen in him before. Wilson was _certain_ he'd misunderstood, and asked her to repeat it. That was the word she'd used—_serenity_.

And Wilson's seen the change for himself, in the days since he'd been released. As long as he's known House, he's sensed that beneath his ego, his bravado, an old hurt festered—a hurt that kept House striving for something always out of his reach. House is more comfortable with himself now; somehow, he's touched whatever's eluded him all these years.

Until now, though, Wilson hasn't known just _what_ it was he'd written that seemed to have made such a difference, had made things better for House. As he reads the last lines of the letter, his question is answered—with a certainty that takes his breath away.

While writing to Cuddy, Wilson had remembered that night in Atlantic City when their doomed patient asked House why he'd become a doctor. House told the story of a man everybody shunned, until they _needed_ him. Wilson will always remember the intensity burning in House's eyes as he'd related how everyone _had_ to listen to the man, because he was _right._ In that moment, Wilson had realized the incredible importance such acknowledgement held for House. So he had written, _Tell House I said he did the right thing. Tell him just like that: 'Wilson says you were right; you did the right thing.'_

House had highlighted the last sentence; it shines and jumps from the page in bright yellow. The words around it are smudged from handling, but this sentence is vivid and alive under its glowing blanket of ink.

Wilson carefully refolds the fragile paper and slides it gently back into the pocket. He takes his time replacing the jeans, just as he'd found them. Then he sits on the edge of the bed and closes his eyes. Against the burning blackness of his eyelids, that one sentence still glows. Such a simple truth, just something Wilson had wanted House to know, yet somehow—just as House had worked to free Wilson—Wilson's words had freed House.

In all these months, throughout the entire horrible nightmare, there's one thing Wilson's never done, never given into. And now, it finally happens. Wilson bows his head, and he cries.

**Another A/N:** Many (myself included) wanted to see this series go to twenty-four hours. **Blackmare **has been kind enough to provide us with the following explanation, that we may have closure: Her take on the "missing" hours is as follows: Hours 21-24: _Wasted Hours_. House and Wilson sit around and watch a Miami Vice marathon on Spike TV. _The End_.


End file.
